AS late the Muse in silent hour I sought,
And chanc’d to rove the various field of thought,
Where many a trifle glitter’d in my view,
And serious themes oft claim’d attention due;
Not unamaz’d my wandering eyes survey’d,
By me unsung, sweet Cam! thy classic shade.
Yet oh! what flow’rets can my Muse provide,
To deck the mansions of her earliest pride?
Far too unletter’d is my rural verse,
Immortal Cam! thy glories to rehearse;
Whose shades send forth the greatest of mankind,
And sages, boundless in expanse of mind.
Yet joy still brightens with her gilding ray,
While ling’ring o’er thy flow’ry banks I stray,
To captivate thine ear with strains of choice,
Though feeble and ineloquent my voice.
Quick to discern the lofty from the low,
And blot the lines that with false splendor glow,
With sudden glance will all thy Poets view,
That not on me descends Minerva’s dew.
On many a page her fruitful glories shine,
But unpropitious never beam’d on mine;
No learning checks me as I wildly sing,
Nor points to elocution’s heavenly spring.
Yet not forlorn of all etherial fire,
For thee, sweet Cam, I strike th’ inviting lyre;
For thee I sing, though uninspir’d my lays,
And dwell delighted on the sounds of praise.
Oft have I heard, that on thy vernal shore
Great VERULAM enrich’d the world with lore;
That there thy NEWTON sent his mind on high
To pierce through all, with philosophic eye,
That God permits a mortal to descry.
But sweeter far shall memory fond retain,
That MILTON dwelt within thy sacred fane;
There oft repos’d beneath thy shady trees,
To catch Divinity’s inspiring breeze;
There learnt to weave his Amaranthine crown,
And climb the wond’rous summit of renown;
As oft to thee, bright Cam! I fondly turn,
From whose blest fountain flow’d his heavenly urn:
And on thy domes this glorious wreath entwine,
“A BACON , NEWTON , and a MILTON thine!”
(Emma Lyon)
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